


Cut Down

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different Death, Book: Pani Jeziora | The Lady of the Lake, Gen, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Geralt changed the direction of his movement, trying to escape. But he was caught in the crowd. And for a split second he was mired in the crowd.He could only watch the pitchfork that was flying towards his body.Whumptober Day 12: I think I've Broken Something
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958032
Comments: 53
Kudos: 58
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of Lady of the Lake, the last of the Witcher books (although it’s important to note that this is an AU). For those unfamiliar, after saving Ciri they go to Rivia where they're caught up in a race riot.
> 
> Some of the dialogue is borrowed from the book. 
> 
> **Prompt**  
>  No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING  
> Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

Geralt hurried his friends toward the cellar as the mob clattered outside.

“Geralt,” moaned Dandelion, his face white as a sheet, hands trembling as he gripped the strap of his lute. “I have a certain resemblance to an elf…”

 _You are an elf, or halfway there at any measure_ , you dratted fool, thought Geralt. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, attempting to pull the poet away from the window where he was watching the ongoing Pogram with wide eyes. 

Clouds of smoke appeared over the rooftops. A group of dwarves came running through the alleys, frightened. Two of them, without hesitation, jumped into the lake and started swimming, splashing hard and moving for the centre of the lake. The rest scattered. Some turned towards the inn.

The mob poured into the street. They were faster than the dwarves driven, by their lust for killing.

“Geralt…” Dandelion moaned in a heartbreaking tone as blood began to fly. 

“Very well,” said the Witcher, walking towards the exit and drawing his sword. “But this is the last time! Damn me, but it really is the last time!”

He went out onto the porch, then jumped off it and cut a hulking man in a masonry smock, then a woman that threatened him with a shovel. He then amputated the hand of a woman who was grasping the hair of one of the dwarves. With two quick diagonal cuts he finished off the men kicking one of the fallen dwarves.

He waded into the crowd. Quickly moving in semicircles. He slashed wide, seemingly at random - knowing that such swings were more spectacular than violent. He did not want to kill them. He just wanted to wounded them.

“An elf! An elf!” Someone in the mob shouted as if possessed. “Kill the elf!”

 _What nonsense_ , he thought, _Dandelion might look like an elf, but I don’t look like an elf in any way_.

He spotted the person who had shouted, maybe a soldier, for he was wearing uniform and high boots. He advanced through the crowd, dodging like an eel. The soldier was protecting himself with a pike, holding it with both hands. Geralt chopped at the pole, severing fingers.

He spun, causing another large cut, screams of pain and a fountain of blood.

“Mercy!” A lad said on his knees before him, peering through his disheveled hair. “Mercy!”

Geralt spared him, stopping his arm and sword, using the attacking impetus to complete his turn. From the corner of his eye he saw the disheveled young man with a smirk on his face and saw what he was holding in his hands. He changed the direction of his movement, trying to escape. But he was caught in the crowd. And for a split second he was mired in the crowd.

He could only watch the pitchfork that was flying towards his body.

But the impact he was anticipating never came.

Dandelion, his lute left in behind in favor of a broom that he wielded like a weapon, had stepped in front of him at the last moment. He was facing Geralt as the pitchfork slammed into his back, forcing him forward onto his knees.

Everything else forgotten, Geralt lunged for him, grabbing him and pulling him to his chest as the pitchfork fell away. Blood soaked his hands as he struggled to staunch the bleeding, ripping off his shirt and wadding it up, pressing it to the poet’s wounds.

The crowd was falling back, either from Geralt’s scream of rage or the battle cries of Yarpen and Zoltan who had raced in to the fray. Together, they dragged Dandelion back to the tavern.

The poet was white as a sheet, gasping for air. “Dandelion, stay with us,” Geralt pleaded, cupping Dandelion’s head with one hand, the other tangling in the poet’s weakened fingers.

“Wirsing ran for a doctor,” said Zoltan.

Dandelion tried to speak, tried to say something, but blood bubbled on his lips.

All of a sudden, Geralt knew it was no use. The pitchfork had pierced his lungs and possibly damaged his heart. There was no doctor on the continent that could have him, let alone one in a shithole like Riva.

The poet’s fingers gripped Geralt’s tightly for a moment, their eyes meeting. Blue and gold. Then his fingers slackened and his eyes closed for the last time.

Geralt fell forward and buried his face in the poet’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so in the books Geralt died but hey, why not kill Dandelion instead?? It is canon that he ran into the fight armed with a broom, after all. 
> 
> EDIT: yeah I decided to continue this. It'll be a few chapters, not too long. But good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll wanted it. I have a few ideas for this, so here goes.

Hunger clawed at his stomach, cold and dampness seeped into bones through his thin shirt.

He had no idea where he was, what was happening, or even who he was. He had no name, nothing to explain how’d he’d come to be in the middle of a desolatemountain range.

All he knew was that he wanted to eat something besides nuts and berries and to sleep somewhere that wasn’t a cave. More than anything, he wanted silence. Wanted the sounds in his head, melodies, fragments of poetry, strumming of a lute, to stop.

But when he stumbled into town, people shouted and threw rocks at him, telling him to go away, that he was filthy creature, that he would attract necrophages. 

“Where am I?” he asked the guard at the gates.

“Gulet,” the guard replied, giving him a strange look. “In Aedirn.”

He thanked him, even though those words meant very little to him, and stumbled on his way. Temeria was a word he knew, he it was a kingdom, he could picture it on a map, but he had no idea if he was from there or even if he’d ever been there before.

“Please,” he rasped, stumbling up to a merchant selling hotcakes, the smell filling his nostrils and making his stomach rumble. “Please sir-”

But he was chased away by a knife.

The man stumbled away, looking for someone else.

Some times he couldn’t hear anything over the noises in his head, and he would curl in on himself, and rock back and forth until they finally faded to whispers. Then he would start his begging anew.

“I’m from Oxenfurt,” he would say, to anyone who would listen, even though he had no idea what it meant or where he mind find it. “How can I get there? I want to go home.”

A woman took pity on him and offered him a thread bare jacket, which he pulled on over the shirt he was wearing.

“You ought to throw out those rags,” she told him, frowning. “Covered in blood they are.”

“But I’m _cold_.”

She only shook her head and shooed him away, clearly not wanting him around anymore.

So he stumbled on.

He lost track of how many days he spent in the city. It was better than the mountains he’d stumbled out of, the humans clearly didn’t like him, but they didn’t run from him and point and whisper like the dwarves in the mountains had.

He could steal food from windowsills and sleep in doorways or alleys to stay warm. It wasn’t an ideal existence, which was what made any familiar face a blessing.

When he saw the guard he had met at the city gates, on his first day in Gulet the man’s face lit up. “Have you come to help me?” he asked hopefully.

The guard had a stranger with him, a short, fat man with beady eyes. “That’s him,” said the guard, pointing.

“No one will miss him?” asked the fat one suspiciously.

“No,” promised the guard.

The fat man studied him. “He’s as pretty as you promised.”

He knew he didn’t like the fat man. There was something unseemly about him, disgusting. It made his stomach churn like the rotten food he’d eaten the night before. Without waiting around to see what was about to happen he ran, stumbling through the streets, shouting for help. But no one even looked up.

The guard and the fat man caught up to him quickly, he was too hungry, too tired to move as quickly as he needed to, which made him easy prey.

“Help!” he shrieked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to point out that I did not intentionally have this take place in Gulet. It was just the closest place on the map to what I needed (I just picked the first city i found near Riva). I actually used a map with the Polish spelling “Guleta” so it took me longer than I’d care to admit to connect the dots.
> 
> (For those who aren’t as familiar with the books, Gulet is where Dandelion and Geralt first met.)

Sometimes he still smelled the funeral pyre.

They’d carried Dandelion out of the city, into the foothills of the Mahakam mountains. There they’d stacked wood around him, setting the body on fire. As they’d laid him out, after they’d wiped the blood from his face, he’d appeared to be sleeping. Zoltan had proposed burning his lute with him, but Geralt had growled at the suggestion. 

If he’d died in Oxenfurt, he would have been given proper burial, a grand tombstone in a cemetery, perhaps even a monument at the University. But, as it were, he’d died in Riva, one of nearly 300 dead in a Pogram, and he was lucky to have escaped the mass grave. 

Geralt had abandoned his plans of retirement after that. He’d abandoned any plans he’d ever had, instead wandering the continent, barely surviving. Any attempts of help - from Triss, from Yennefer, even from Ciri - he brushed aside. Winters he spent as far south as he could go without passing into Nilfgaard, no longer returning to Kaer Morhen where his fellow Witchers would have questioned him or - worse yet - tried to help him.

“I’m fine,” he told anyone who asked.

Dandelion’s lute remained in it’s carrying case, in nearly pristine condition. It was the one thing - other than his swords - that he took care of. He’d learned enough from Dandelion over the years to know how to properly care for it - or, to at least keep it from deteriorating.

It was stupid and sentimental. He had no use for it, many people - Oxenfurt, Dandelion’s friends and admirers - would have paid a pretty penny for it. But Geralt didn’t care about any of that. It was all he had left, he was keeping it.

 _“There was nothing you could have done,”_ Yennefer had said, when she had arrived in Rivia only moments after Dandelion’s last breath.

 _“If I hadn’t gone out he wouldn’t have followed me,”_ Geralt had said simply.

Yennefer had shaken her head. _“If you had stayed inside the mob might have found you there.”_

Triss had taken it a step further, saying, _“If you had died instead, how would he have handled it? He could barely function as he was.”_

She had a point, and he hated her for it. Instead of conceding or agreeing, he’d snarled and spat, accused her of speaking ill of the dead, and told her - in no uncertain terms, to “ _fuck off_.”

Geralt wasn’t a fool. He knew that both sorceresses kept an eye on him. As long as they left him be and didn’t lecture him he didn’t care what they wasted their time doing.

He occasionally met with Ciri - how could he not? He loved her - and they would travel together. But it never lasted long before he returned to either Vengerburg, Kaer Morhen, or her elven friends.

Dijkstra, Dandelion’s former employer, had sent a messenger after Geralt, apparently convinced that the bard had faked his death. Geralt had told the messenger that if Dijstra bothered him again he’d find the spymaster and break his other leg. He was left alone after that.

One thing he did, was try to avoid anywhere that might remind him of the bard. That was what made his arrival in Gulet so frustrating. It wasn’t as though he’d intended to go there, it just happened to be the nearest city that wasn’t Vengerburg, and he needed to stock up on supplies.

 _I’ll get what I need and be gone as soon as possible_ , he decided, gripping Roach’s reigns tightly and leading her through the town.

“Help!”

Geralt spun at the sound of shouting, just in time to see a blonde haired man racing through the streets. He did a double take. _It can’t be_ , he told himself sternly. _It simply cannot be Dandelion. It cannot_. 

The man screamed again, sounding just like Dandelion, and Geralt sprung into action. Stepping forward he grabbed Dandelion and pulled him out of harms’ way, shoving him toward Roach. “Stay there!” he said, spinning to view the poet’s pursuers.

Seeing that Dandelion had support - and from a Witcher at that - the two men suddenly slowed, looking at one another uneasily. “What do you want with Dandelion?” he snarled, reaching for his sword in case they decided to make any foolish moves.

“We- uh-” the fat man looked at the guard who blanched.

“A mistake,” said the guard. “Thought he was someone else.”

“Then fuck off.” Geralt released his sword, but he didn’t take his eyes off the men until they were well out of sight. Then he turned around and took in the sight behind him.

Dandelion was holding Roach’s saddle, his blue eyes wide. “Th- thank you,” he stuttered. “Oh fuck that was close.” There was no mistaking that cadence, the lilt of his voice or the glimmer in his cornflower eyes.

Geralt pulled him into a hug. After several moments - when Dandelion didn’t return his embrace - he forced himself to step back. The poet blinked up at him and Geralt rubbed his eyes, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t seeing things.

 _What the deuce_ , he thought. _So what if it’s only my imagionation? It won’t hurt anyone to play along_. Although, his depressing thoughts aside, he was fairly certain he hadn’t imagined Dandelion. He’d not had alcohol in nearly a week, and it had been even longer since he’d drank White Gull. So unless he’d been poisoned, there was little reason for him to be hallucinating.

 _A man coming back from the dead would hardly be the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,_ he decided. _Perhaps Mother Nenekke is right about gods, after all, though I won’t tell her that_. 

Realizing he was staring, Geralt swallowed and offered the poet his hand, “Come on, Dandelion. You can explain on the way to the inn.”

“Inn?” The poet asked excitedly, then he frowned. “Explain what?”

“What the deuce you’re doing here, for starters, and then what you’re wearing.” He’d never seen Dandelion in such filthy clothes, which was the biggest clue that the man couldn’t be an apparition. His imagionation couldn’t have conjured up such a ridiculous sight, after all.

“A nice lady gave me this coat,” he said reproachfully, pulling at the overly long sleeves. “As for what I’m doing here, I haven’t the slightest idea. Why, I barely know where ‘here’ is, and I certainly don’t know why I ought to be explaining it to you.”

“Dandelion-“

“And why do you keep calling me that? I thought you must have made it up to get those men away from me, but you keep saying it.”

“That’s your name-”

“It is?” The poet tilted his head, then smiled. “Do you know me?” he asked, looking suddenly hopefully. “I- I can’t remember anything and I’m cold and hungry and-”

“You can’t… remember?”

Dandelion shook his head.

“I’m your friend,” Geralt said quietly.

“You know me?”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “I’ve known you for nearly three decades.” It didn’t make any sense, how could Dandelion possibly not remember him? Although, given his apparent return from the dead, perhaps that wasn’t what he should be most concerned about.

“I’m your… _friend_?” His face lit up. “Oh thank the gods!” he gasped, grabbing Geralt and pulling him into a hug. “Oh I thought I was going to die alone here, oh- I don’t remember your name…”

“Geralt,” he said quietly, wrapping his arms around Dandelion and tucking his nose into the poet’s hair. Then, after getting a whiff of him, he thought better of it and turned his head. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dandelion happily trailed after him - yet another thing that seemed to confirm his identity, because only Dandelion was foolish enough to take up with the first mutant he met. Although, given how many times he’d mentioned being cold and hungry, Geralt had a sinking suspicion that he might have followed after anyone that offered him food and lodging.

He led them to the first semi-reputable looking inn he found, throwing his bags over his shoulder and letting the stable hand take Roach. After a moment’s hesitation he passed Dandelion the lute case which had been hanging off his saddle.

The poet stared at it for a long moment, his face unreadable, then he slowly said, “I- I think- Geralt have I- may I-”

“It’s yours,” Geralt said quietly.

Dandelion sat on the ground and carefully opened the case, staring at the lute in amazement. “My lute,” he said softly. “I- it’s my lute, isn’t it Geralt?”

Geralt knelt beside him. “Yes,” he said, unable to help the warm feeling in his chest. “It’s yours.”

“I really do know you, don’t I?” Dandelion snapped the case shut and hugged it to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. “I- I- I don’t know- Geralt I- I can’t remember anything.”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt told him, resting his hand on Dandelion's arm. “You don’t have to.”

The bard pulled the lute closer, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Then he abruptly stood. “You mentioned food?” he asked.

Geralt felt the smallest smile tug at his lips. _That’s Dandelion, all right_ , he thought. _Food, song, and women, that’s all he’s ever cared for_. Giving the bard a pat on the shoulder, he promised, “I did.”

The innkeeper wasn’t exactly happy to have someone as filthy as Dandelion set foot in his establishment (the fact that he was with a Witcher didn’t help), and only promising to get him cleaned and changed immediately allowed them to stay. Geralt, with his sensitive nose, couldn’t complain about the prospect of getting Dandelion cleaned up. They were directed toward a bathhouse behind the inn, and promised that food would be waiting for them in their room when they were done.

It was more coin than Geralt had spent in one place in years, but he handed it over without a second thought.

Inside the bathhouse, Geralt started heating the water while Dandelion poked through the bag Geralt had shoved at him, one hand still wrapped around his lute case. He didn’t have much in the way of soaps - he’d never cared for it like Dandelion had - but the poet didn’t seem to have any complaints.

Then a familiar scent filled the room, and for a moment Geralt was thrown back to a happier time, before anyone had died. It was Dandelion’s favorite scent. He hadn’t smelled it since the winter they had spent in Toussant all those years ago, but he certainly hadn't forgotten it. 

“This smells wonderful,” whispered Dandelion. 

The Witcher froze, his head snapping up to see Dandelion holding a tiny glass vial of cologne that he must have found at the bottom of the bag. _I’d forgotten I had that_ , he thought blankly. It was the perfume Dandelion had favored, although, how it had come to be in Geralt’s possession he had no idea. The poet must have put it in the bag at some point and forgotten about it.

Since Geralt habitually used whatever was on the top of the bag, the tiny vial - smaller than a pinky finger - must have gotten lost in the bottom. 

For one long moment, he had an irrational desire to rip the oil out of Dandelion’s hands. _No!_ He wanted to shout. _You can’t have that! You can’t use it! It’s important!_

But why? It was Dandelion’s, after all. He wanted to keep it because it reminded him of the poet, and he no longer needed that reminder.

Realizing he was staring, Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded. “It’s yours,” he said slowly. “I forgot I still had it, but you always were putting your things in my bag.” 

Dandelion grinned. “I was thinking ahead!” he said brightly, tucking the bottle into the pocket of his jacket.

“No,” said Geralt. “You just didn’t want to keep up with your own things.”

The bard snickered in delight. Geralt continued preparing the bath, dumping the steaming buckets of water into the tub, as Dandelion poked around the room, eventually finding a warped mirror.

He stopped and stared at his reflection, studying himself as though he’d never seen his own face. _Perhaps he hasn’t_ , mused Geralt. _Not that he can remember anyway_. 

The bard didn't seem entirely pleased by what he saw. Dandelion rubbed at his face with his fingers, then slowly pulled off the second hand jacket, dropping it too the floor.

Geralt inhaled sharply, dropping the empty bucket he was carrying.

“What?” His reflection forgotten, Dandelion turned to look at Geralt.

“You-” he swallowed, at a loss for words. “Your clothes.”

“What about them?”

“You were wearing them the last time I saw you.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not that unusual. I haven’t been able to replace them.”

_Those clothes burned along with you_ , Geralt thought, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He stepped closer, holding out his hand. “May I-”

Dandelion nodded, and Geralt rested his hand on the man’s shoulder, studying him intently. “It’s been four years,” Geralt explained. “You-” He stopped abruptly, freezing in his tracks.

“Is something the matter?”

There was a dark stain on the back of Dandelion’s shirt. At the center of it was three, nearly perfectly round holes. _Like the tines of a pitchfork…_

Without thinking he reached out and pulled off Dandelion’s shirt, exposing his back. Geralt was half expecting to see open, gaping wounds, or to have Dandelion bleed out in his arms once again.

But instead he was greeted by three narrow scars, white and smooth, perfectly healed.

Dandelion glanced over his shoulder and threw him a playful wink. “Geralt, I know I’m a sight to behold by any measure, but I’d rather eat first, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’m not-” Geralt physically recoiled. “Gods no, Dandelion. I just- you- you have got scars.”

“Geralt,” Dandelion said, giving the Witcher an easy smile. “It was a _joke_.” He seemed completely surprised by Geralt’s discomfort, his eyes glowing with delight. 

_Of course it was_. Geralt nodded slowly, giving Dandelion a reassuring nod. “Your bath is nearly ready,” he said quietly. “I can leave if-”

“You don’t have to,” said Dandelion, already stripping out of his pants. “In fact, I’d rather you stayed, I- I don’t want to be alone…”

“You’re not alone anymore, Dandelion,” he promised.


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt struggled to not stare as Dandelion splashed in the tub, happily scrubbing himself with the soap he’d picked up. He’d seen Dandelion ill, he’d seem him low on coin and underfed, he’d seen him worn from months of travel, but he’d never seen him as skeletal as he was at the moment.

He hung back, not certain what he ought to be doing. All he wanted was to touch him, to reassure himself that Dandelion was real, that he was sitting in front of him, but grabbing a man with no memory, who had just spent gods know how long alone on the streets, seemed unwise. “May I wash your hair?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh? Would you?” Dandelion grinned over his shoulder at him. Dandelion’s usually beautiful hair was a mess, stained nearly brown from grime. The first thing Geralt did was coat his locks in oil and try to work out the knots. Dandelion leaned into his touch happily, closing his eyes and letting the Witcher work his fingers through his scalp.

It felt… familiar.

The bard tapped his fingers on the edge of the tub, humming tunelessly. “Geralt?” he asked after a long moment. “What happened to me?”

“What do you mean?” the Witcher asked quietly.

Dandelion sat up, his hair sliding out of Geralt’s grip, and turned to peer at him curiously. “How- how did I come to be here? What happened to my memory?”

Geralt studied him in silence, contemplating. _How does one tell a man he died?_ he mused _. If I tell him, he will think I’m mad_ , he decided, _it’s best to let him remember the full truth in time_.

“I don’t know,” he said, somewhat truthfully. He did not, in fact, know how Dandelion came to be sitting in front of him. “I- we haven’t seen each other in some time.”

“Oh,” said Dandelion, his face falling slightly.

“I will help you to remember, if you’d like,” offered Geralt. “Perhaps we can retrace your steps, or perhaps Yenenfer would be able to tell us something.” As soon as he’d spoken, he wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Unfortunately, Dandelion cocked his head and asked, “Who’s Yennefer?”

“An old friend,” he said simply.

Dandelion studied him for a moment, then his eyes glittered. “I see,” he said imperiously. “She’s that sort of friend, is she Geralt.”

“Shut up, Poetaster.”

The bard laughed, leaning back in the tub once again, settling down so he could face Geralt. “Your lover, will she be able to help you think?”

“She’s not my lover,” Geralt said sharply. “But she is a sorceress, and if anyone has answers it will be her.”

Dandelion’s eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together. “Have it your way, Geralt,” he said merrily. “I would be delighted to meet this not-lover of yours, particularly if she might help me with my memory.”

The Witcher snorted. “She’ll be delighted to see you,” he grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “Finish your bath, I’ll check on our food.” 

* * *

Dandelion ate as though he’d never seen food before. It didn’t matter to him that the bread was slightly burnt or that the meat was dry, he licked his fingers anyway. Geralt let him enjoy his meal in silence until he made to snap open the bones to suck out the marrow.

“Here,” he said, pushing his own, mostly untouched plate toward him. “Have mine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Very.”

The bard was wearing a spare change of Geralt’s clothes. It was far too big for him, the pants staying up only thanks to a belt Geralt had purchased off the innkeeper. There was nothing to do for the shirt, the neckline hanging off his shoulders despite his repeated attempts to pull it back up. He kept shivering, despite the clothes, so Geralt had insisted he sit by the fire and wrap in a blanket as he ate.

Dandelion hadn’t exactly protested.

He only ate about half of Geralt’s plate before deciding he was done, thanking him and sliding it back toward the Witcher before wrapping the blanket more tightly around himself. “I keep trying to remember,” he said quietly. “But I can’t, Geralt. I- you see familiar, and my lute, but, but what if- no, never mind.” He shook his head, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his head on them.

Geralt didn’t know what to do for him. “Yennefer will know what to do,” he repeated, even as his own mind reminded himself that it was possible even she wouldn’t be able to help. _Then I’ll take him to Ciri. If that fails, I’ll try Triss. I’ll try every Sorcerer and Sorceress to ever have graduated from Aretuza or Ban Ard. If magic cannot help him, then perhaps the scientists at Oxenfurt will know. I will even take him to Ferrant, if that it is what is best_.

Granted, Ferrant was a last resort, and not just because Geralt disliked him. He had sent Geralt a letter after Dandelion’s death, informing him that if he ever set foot in Kerrack again he’d be arrested and executed. He was also, in the Witcher’s mind, an idiot.

But he would have to be careful. There were people he could trust implicitly - the other Witchers, Yennefer, Triss, and Ciri - but there were others who would see a man returned from the dead as an opportunity for study. They’d take Dandelion to experiment on him, to try to learn the secret of his new life. _I won’t let that happen_ , he told himself stubbornly. _I failed him once, I won’t fail him again_.

Dandelion, unaware of Geralt’s inner turmoil, only nodded and stared into the flames.


End file.
